Stop The Boats!

....the message sends to your Facebook friends.
Stop the millions spent on hotels!
Stop the life of luxury while we are stuck in poverty.
Stop the boats!
Send them back to hell.

Stop the boats,
the small boats, little dinghies of despair.
Stop the race away from war, stop the people seeking peace,
stop the human need for safety, water, food and money
and a house that doesn't fall around your ears.

Stop the Mayflower, the Anne, the Victory, Endeavour,
stop the Erebus, Bounty and Endurance.
Stop the Little James, the Challenger, Discovery,
stop HMS Adventure.
Stop the Terror.

Stop Columbus, stop Magellan, Marco Polo, stop de Gama,
stop Cook and Cabot, stop Drake, de Balboa.
Stop Hudson and Cortez, Livingstone and Raleigh.
Stop Amundsen and Shackleton,
the Manifest Destiny.

Stop boats of exploration,
stop your circumnavigation,
stop the Commonwealth, Empire,
stop the ill-concealed murder.
Stop ‘discovery’, stealing, stop the history books revealing
any truth about fleeing persecution.

Stop the pilgrims, stop the immigrants,
the ‘heroes’ and the ‘villains’,
stop a nation from creating the distinction.

Stop the boats,
the small boats, little dinghies of despair
or stop the doublespeak encouraging division?

On watching yet another TV news item about a carefree home care worker

by Laura Taylor

 Aww.
Aren’t they sweet?
Isn’t that lovely?
Aren’t they considerate?
Beyond the call of duty.
Look at him dance.
Look at her smile.
Isn’t she caring?
Isn’t that nice?
Isn’t he generous, patient, kind?
Makes you feel all warm inside.

Isn’t this smiley?
Isn’t this bright?
Isn’t this cheerful?
Aren’t we blind?
Do they cha-cha, do they sway,
do they laugh and sing all day?
Is this piss all down my leg
or is it raining? Who can tell?
Aren’t they demoralised, skint and dejected?
Who gives a fuck?
Aren’t they expendable?
Aren’t they exploited?
Isn’t this predictable?
Turn a blind eye, let’s watch them boogie.
Aww.

Moonshot haiku

by Laura Taylor

Moonshot ambition;
bukkake for the nation.
Pass the flannel, please.

Impressions of a Curate's Egg

by Laura Taylor

It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times.
It didn't miss a trick
of the Spring bells
and yellows, marigold's bloom.
Sitting in the long grass
on golden afternoons
hearing nothing, no brawls,
no Friday siren calls.
Mean streets bleached
with a bucketful of shut pubs,
rubbish unstrewn, unspewed-on pavements.
Sky blind blue, buzzard-full,
close focus of our 20/20 vision.
Trade not exhaling desire.

It was smiles wide as wasteland
walked on our doorstep,
deeper to explore every pocket,
nature's locker for an office.
Rare ponds, bramble-racked,
mapped for the autumn.
It wasn't packed motorways,
bus, train, traffic jams,
nose-to-tail delays or verbal warnings.

It was Protecting Our NHS,
empty shelf selfishness,
staying home, injecting disinfectant.
Untested elderly, triaged in reverse,
DNR'd without regard,
dispensing with disposable community.
It wasn't herd immunity
even though Pat Vallance said it was,
on the telly.
Galloping mortality, soap-sud slides.
Just in from Durham, Pinocchio advised
that his tongue was as long as a telephone wire.
Bridges burning, lesson learning, medics muted
by a minister primed to divide
and conquer truth.

It was paper rainbows, Thursday claps,
pots and pans banged
for the badge
that Matt had offered,
not the pay rise, that he didn't.
It was Cheltenham, Atletico, "official advice".
It wasn't quarantining incoming flights.
A week too late for 20,000 graves,
grief borne alone in isolation.

It was One. Bin. Bag. One. Glove. Then. Another.
60,000 deaths on an island with the borders
that you fought on
and failed to control.
Three word slogans
that didn't make the grade.
It's still no vaccination,
infection rising daily.
It had listened to the science
but now it's back to work,
school, tube-bred winter of our discontent
and ravaged population.